


The Comfort and Joy Affair

by kronette



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 11:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5414630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>November had turned over to December which brought another encounter with Thrush, another missing U.N.C.L.E. agent and another frantic partner. A typical day in the life of Illya and Napoleon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Comfort and Joy Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_wretching](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wretching/gifts).



November had turned over to December, but Napoleon was too busy swimming for his life to notice. The water wasn’t frozen though it felt like it, chilling his bones even as he dove to avoid another spray of bullets. Illya was somewhere beneath the murky water, his fish-like genes enabling him to stay underwater for long minutes at a time. Napoleon envied him that as he shot out of the water gasping for air. He had made it to the other side of the river but didn't see his partner anywhere. That didn't mean that Illya wasn't already on land; he also had chameleon-like genes which graced him with the ability to blend in anywhere or into any scenery. 

Napoleon dragged himself up the muddy bank and crawled over to a pile of driftwood, hiding himself from his Thrush pursuers. He quietly caught his breath, lamented yet another ruined suit and mentally organized their report to Waverly on their successful destruction of the laser. 

Several times his hand went to his jacket for his communicator pen, but he resisted the urge to contact Illya. Thrush had a nasty habit of turning up just when you thought it was safe. As if conjured by his thoughts, the crunch of dry leaves accompanied the low tones of at least two Thrush lackeys heading toward him. He made himself as small as possible to fit beneath the gnarled, dead tree roots and shallowed his breathing as the soldiers stopped near him. 

The scent of tobacco wafted on the air as the two men discussed the futility of searching for the U.N.C.L.E. agents. "I'm telling you, I saw Eleven hit the blond one. What floated down the middle of the river was a _corpse_ , man. No way did that one survive." 

Napoleon's heart gave a wild thump, but reason quickly subdued his flash of fear. Both he and Illya knew the best tactic for stopping a Thrush pursuit was to be dead. If those two goons thought Illya dead, then his partner was probably in hiding, just like he was, waiting for the right moment to make his reappearance. 

"Yeah? Well I'm telling _you_ that I nailed the other one," replied a higher pitched voice. "I saw him floundering around after I got him in the shoulder. He probably drown soon after." 

Napoleon grinned. He'd played that one up and it looked as though his gamble had paid off. The bullet had hit close enough that water sprayed everywhere and he took full advantage of the proximity to fake an injury. 

"So what are we doing out here freezing our asses off?" the first one whined petulantly.

A cigarette butt flew past Napoleon's eye-line sight. "Avoiding clean up duty," the other grumbled. 

Napoleon's smile grew wider. Thrush hadn't detected their presence at the compound until after Illya had set the explosives around the compound. After the detonation and a brief firefight, he and Illya had been forced to escape in the opposite direction of their getaway car via the river. But not before they saw one wall of the building explode outward in a spectacular shower of concrete and metal. 

The voices drifted off as the two goons walked away, the crunch of their boots on the ground fading as their distance increased from Napoleon's hideout. With a soft groan, he stretched from his cramped hiding spot, working out the kinks in his back despite his constant shivering. 

The light was beginning to change with the setting sun and the air was growing colder. A tendril of worry crept along Napoleon's spine at the continued radio silence of his partner. He fumbled in his pockets for his pen, only then realizing it must have been lost in the water. Illya could have been trying to raise him on the communicator for hours and he never would have heard. Napoleon immediately checked his watch but the face was filled with mud, destroying the ability to send or receive a tracking signal. He let his hands fall to his sides, a momentary paralysis taking hold. 

Annoyed with himself for his lapse, he visually scoured both sides of the riverbank hoping to spot the glow of a fire, but only darkness reflected back at him. Fear seized his heart once more. Had Illya been captured by Thrush after all or was he hiding from them? Was he too hurt to build a fire or was he searching the woods, looking for Napoleon's signal fire? 

Too many possibilities had Napoleon's mouth set in a thin line, but left him with only two choices: go in search of Illya or wait for Illya to find him. 

Spurred into action by another full body shudder, Napoleon gathered the driftwood that had been his hiding place and started a small fire using the cigarette butt and a few Boy Scout tricks, the potential for capture be damned. The heat stilled his shivers, but not the coldness that had tightened around his heart. The last time he'd seen Illya, his partner had been surfacing from the river to shout, "Hurry!" at him. 

His gaze went skyward, absently locating the constellations that Illya had taught him. The sliver of the moon had an eerie glow about it, better suited for Halloween than the upcoming Christmas season. Another shiver raced along Napoleon's spine and he tucked his hands under his armpits, telling himself that Illya was searching for his fire and would stumble upon him in a few minutes, cold and hungry and a beautiful sight to behold. 

If he didn't, Napoleon was going to find Illya and kick his lover's ass for making him flounder with indecision. 

=-=-=-=-=

Illya's teeth chattered as he scooped damp dirt over his chest. His clothing had been soaked through and turned the dirt into a semblance of mud. It was disgusting muck, but it covered him like a blanket and would help to retain his body heat. The meager fire he'd managed with the few dry sticks he'd found had burned out within minutes. The remaining embers gave off the faintest light and almost no heat. It was worrisome, but hardly his only calamity of the evening. 

His ankle was swollen as thick as his calf and he couldn't tell if it was fractured or severely sprained. Regardless of which injury he had sustained, he could not put any pressure on it. His several failed attempts had resulted in dizzy spells and agony like the worst Thrush torture. 

He still had no idea what his leg had gotten tangled in beneath the water, but he had nearly drown in his attempt to free himself. He'd been pushed along with the strong current, tossed like a twig until he'd managed to right himself and swim to shore. He'd lain exactly where he had dragged himself onto the bank, flopped out on the ground and gulping in great lungfuls of air. The light breeze had felt like ice against his chilled skin, but he'd been too weak to move. 

At his first attempt to stand, he'd discovered his injured ankle. Resigned to calling for help, he'd searched for his communicator pen only to discover it missing. He'd then checked his watch and found it water-logged, leaving him with no way to contact Napoleon or for Napoleon to triangulate his position.

Annoyed at having been severely put out, he'd half-crawled, half-dragged himself further up the embankment to an open area visible from a good distance. He'd peeled off his jacket and shirt, gooseflesh rising before he could jam his arms back into the jacket. He'd fashioned a flag using his shirt and a Y shaped branch stuck in the ground, stretching the fabric for maximum visibility. The shirt had been stained with mud but it was still the brightest thing he had, the white glowing eerily in the pale cast of the moon. It hung above his head like a grave marker and the irony of what he was doing to stay alive was not lost on his macabre sense of humor. 

The makeshift flag served two purposes: a beacon for Napoleon to locate him and an advanced warning if Thrush shot it. If it was Thrush that found him first, at least they would carry him to their compound, which would get him closer to a timely rescue by Napoleon. 

Illya finished pulling more dirt around his head and neck, telling himself that the little movements he felt were merely the dirt shifting, not dozens of insects that had been disturbed with the earth. He patted some mud onto his cheeks and forehead, taking care not to get it in his eyes, then dug his hand into the loose dirt at his side to warm it. 

Breathing deeply a few times to stave off the feeling of being buried alive, he stared up at the sky framed by trees and plotted the constellations. A far cry from the light pollution of New York City, this sky was filled with stars, leaving him feeling insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe. He released a wistful sigh, watching faint condensation appear above him. 

The worry that he'd carefully kept locked away began to surface as the rushing sounds of the river pressed in on him. Napoleon should have realized that their communicators and trackers were useless and started searching for him. Illya had no way of knowing how far downstream he'd been pulled, but it couldn't have been that terribly far from where Napoleon had washed up. So why hadn't Napoleon found him yet? 

The chilling thought occurred that Napoleon might also have been hurt—or worse, captured by Thrush. If either scenario was true, Illya was going to find his lover and kick his ass for making him sleep in a dirt coffin. Anger helped warm him, fending off the worst of the chills as the moon rose higher in the sky. 

Illya's strenuous activities of that evening were catching up with him, aches tightening his muscles and weariness clawing at his resolve. Rocks and twigs dug into his supine body and he was uncomfortably aware of the dampness seeping to his skin through the mud. His eyes closed in pained remembrance of the plans they'd made for when the mission was complete. Their hotel room was small and the bed even smaller, lending a cozy, decadent ambiance to their intimacy. Not that they'd done anything but sleep, curved into each other's bodies, but even that was a luxury neither one of them took for granted. The hours after a mission were _theirs_ and he knew Napoleon cherished them as dearly as he did. 

What he wouldn't give to feel the starch of hotel sheets beneath his body or a flat pillow beneath his head. The feather-light touch of calloused fingers trailing over his shoulder. The rasp of a tongue at the small of his back. A muscled thigh pressed between his legs, making him gasp. The sharp taste of Napoleon on his tongue. The body beneath his going limp as their harsh breaths filled his ears.

Warmed by thoughts of his lover, Illya slipped into an exhaustion-fueled slumber.

=-=-=-=-=-=

Napoleon's gaze traveled from the fire to the sky, tracking the moon rise over the tops of the trees to judge the passage of time. It had already been too long; his entire being shouted at him to find Illya _now_. 

He scouted his immediate area for several branches thick enough to sustain a fire but not so heavy as to slow him down. He stripped off his jacket and shirt quickly, donning the jacket before the air could chill him again. He tore the shirt into strips and tied them around one end of each of the branches, then tied two more strips around his palms. 

He had nothing to leave as breadcrumbs to mark his trail, but he'd studied the tree line across the river, memorizing the shapes and distances of the tallest trees and the pattern of the larger rocks scattered along the riverbank. The last strip of his shirt he tied to a tree branch stuck into the ground at the edge of the river. It should be easy to spot when he started moving further away from his camp and would help him to judge the distance he'd traveled. 

Tucking all but one of the branches beneath his arm, he touched the shirt-bound end into the fire, holding his breath until it caught and held a flame. Holding his fiery branch aloft, he quickly stomped out his campfire, kicking dirt over the embers to ensure it wouldn't blaze up again. 

He began to walk along the riverbank, looking for signs of Illya's emergence. His feet squished inside his still-wet shoes, his thick socks retaining nearly all of the water they'd accumulated. By contrast, his clothing was almost dry yet it was filled with silt and mud that cracked when he moved. It caked his skin and made him itch like crazy, but that tight band around his heart drove him past his discomfort. 

After walking for several minutes, he began to doubt he was going in the right direction. He had started upstream as Illya was the stronger swimmer of the two of them—Thrush gossip be damned—but he had 50/50 odds of going the wrong way. 

It was in that moment that he realized Illya might have emerged on the other side of the river. If he didn't find evidence of Illya on his side of the river, Napoleon would have to find a way across and begin his search all over again on the opposite bank. 

A violent shiver caught him unexpectedly and he gasped as the cold seemed to press in on him. That sixth sense that partners developed for each other had gotten stronger after he and Illya had become lovers, and it was currently screaming at him that Illya had been dragged downstream. 

Napoleon hurried past his makeshift campground, holding the torch low to the ground to spot any footprints or disturbed ground. The Thrush soldiers had not gone further than his camp, so if Napoleon spotted any indication of a trail, it had to be Illya's. Or an animal, as the fire reflected glowing eyes peering at him from a brush. A fox, Napoleon guessed as it ran away, or a small dog. 

He turn his attention back to the ground and kept walking, sweeping the torch and his gaze over mud, leaves and more driftwood, finding no signs of human intervention. When the fire started consuming the branch, he shifted his hold until the fire got too close to his hand, then lit another branch and tossed the blackened branch aside. 

He had gone through three branches and still found no indication that Illya had stepped foot on this side of the river. He glared at the opposite bank, willing the glint of a watch face or any break in the unending darkness to prove to him that he was looking in the wrong place. To give him a sense of direction. To let him know that he wasn't operating under a futile supposition and that Illya wasn't at the mercy of Thrush once again. 

" _Illya!_ " He didn't think his shout carried over the sound of the river, but exhaustion was pulling at him, begging him for a rest that he could not afford to take. Bleary-eyed, he swung the branch at the ground but it was something on the opposite bank that caught his attention. 

A flutter of white. He was positive he'd seen something—there! It didn't move like a person but it _did_ move, which meant it wasn't a white rock set into the hillside. It wasn't running away, so it wasn't an animal staring out at him. It shifted again at the same time a breeze lifted Napoleon's hair off of his forehead, and in a flash, Napoleon knew what it was. 

Frantically, ecstatically, he cast his light about, looking for a way across the river. The Thrush goons hadn't complained about being cold or wet, so there had to be a bridge close by. 

"I'm coming, Illya," he promised as he spied a dark shape spanning the width of the river far upstream. 

=-=-=-=-=-=

It was a very pleasant dream. He and Napoleon were lying in front of a crackling fire, sipping their drinks and sharing them with open-mouthed kisses. The combined flavor of scotch, wine and Napoleon was an exotic mixture and he groaned softly as he pulled Napoleon down to the thick shag rug. He held the back of Napoleon's head as their kisses grew in strength and passion, no longer content to tease. 

Illya's body was warm and tingling, yet he shivered as if with cold. He pressed up against Napoleon's weight, drawing warmth from his lover's overheated body. When he moved his leg to drape it over the back of Napoleon's knee, a stab of agony destroyed the illusion of the dream and he woke, panting and sweating. 

He clung to the arms wrapped around him, leaning back into the solid bulk he knew to be Napoleon. The wallpaper of the hotel greeted his vision instead of the canopy of trees and his body lay on a soft bed rather than the rock-laden ground. He exhaled slowly, the tension between his shoulder blades releasing when his breath didn't shimmer in the air. He relaxed back against Napoleon's overly warm body, glad that at least one part of his dream had been real. 

"About time, sleepyhead," Napoleon murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. "I found you a little after midnight," he recounted, answering Illya's unvoiced question. "Smart Russian, covering yourself with mud to keep warm. Your nose and right hand were red, but not frostbitten. Your lips," Illya felt fingers gently turn his head until he was facing the concerned gaze filled with love, "were red and swollen, as if we'd spent all night kissing." 

The intensity of Napoleon's gaze flared hot and bright in the center of Illya's chest, spreading outward until every part of him tingled. He lifted his hand to stroke his finger along Napoleon's cheek, knowing his own expression was filled with the love he felt. 

He started to turn over, but Napoleon's arm tightened around him, stopping him. "Don't try to move yet. I had the doctor in and he said your ankle isn't broken, but it is a bad sprain and that you shouldn't aggravate it by moving too much." 

Instinctively, Illya shifted his leg and felt the telltale binding holding his ankle immobile. That small movement triggered his awareness of the small bruises, aches and itchy patches all over his body. He winced at an odd but entirely familiar pull in his left buttock and glared back at Napoleon. 

"The doctor gave us _both_ antibiotics," Napoleon answered dryly. "He also gave strict instructions for us to stay in bed, keep warm and eat lots of soup." Illya felt his expression soften as he watched Napoleon's light humor fall away like a dropped blanket, revealing the anxiety that must have plagued him during the long night. "I didn't allow him to give you any pain medication. Do you want some aspirin? What about food? You've been asleep almost fourteen hours. You've got to be near starvation by now. I can call room service." 

Unable to listen to Napoleon's nervous ramblings any longer, Illya shifted around until he could face his partner. His heart lurched at seeing the haunted look in Napoleon's eyes and the thin lines of worry around his mouth. "I'm alive," Illya rasped through a dry throat. He grasped the back of Napoleon's neck, letting his fingers stroke along the sensitive skin before pulling him closer for a soft kiss. 

He snaked his arms around Napoleon's shoulders, taking a sharp breath as Napoleon hugged him tightly, not speaking again until he felt Napoleon relax against him. "It's good to know that it's just a sprain, but that does not stop it from throbbing painfully," Illya remarked, his usual dry sarcasm sounding rough to his ears. "Aspirin would be appreciated. I'm more tired than hungry." 

Illya returned Napoleon's gentle kiss, careful to keep the discomfort of his raw, chapped lips to himself. The bed dipped as Napoleon's heat left him, but his eyes feasted on the toned body as Napoleon retrieved the aspirin bottle and a glass of water from the phone stand. "How can you be tired?" Napoleon asked, more of his usual snap in his voice. "You've been more or less asleep since I found you and it's nearly dark again."

Illya pulled himself up carefully and leaned back against the headboard, feeling winded just from that little exertion. He took four aspirin and downed them quickly, chasing them with the full glass of water. "My sleep during the night was not restful. It was my body's way of preserving all the heat it could to keep my core from freezing. My sleep after you found me was recuperative, allowing my body to regulate after the trauma of the cold exposure. That means that my body is back to its normal circadian rhythm and is preparing for night." 

He grinned as Napoleon shot him a thoroughly disgusted look, satisfied that the last of Napoleon's anxiety had been vanquished. 

"Show-off," his lover grumbled and, disappointedly, pulled a robe off the end of the bed and wrapped it around his body, ruining Illya's visual appreciation. "I've already reported in to Waverly about the successful completion of our mission. I had the front desk check us out and resubmit our room under false names to throw off any potential Thrush snooping." As Napoleon talked, he picked up a coffee mug and placed it on a tray next to a plate with a half-eaten sandwich. At least Napoleon had managed to eat something; when Illya had to wait for news of Napoleon's injuries, he lost his appetite completely. "I sent our clothes out to be cleaned, though my shoes were unsalvageable and you'd lost one. I've already ordered us new ones; they should be here in the morning. I explained to Waverly about your injury and insisted we get three days off to recuperate. Surprisingly, he agreed." 

Illya had no doubt that Napoleon had cajoled their boss into one of his rare kind-hearted moments. Taking pity on agents was not something Waverly did as a rule, but he was softening with age and giving obtuse hints about retirement and Napoleon's succession. 

Illya didn't want to think about being in the field without his partner at his side, but luckily, Napoleon picked up his mood and offered him a distraction. "Tell me what you want." 

With such a blatant line, Illya obliged by sweeping his gaze over his lover. The belt was carelessly looped at Napoleon's waist, leaving enough of a gap to tantalize without revealing too much. A shiver ghosted over him and Illya held out his hand, absently noticing the dry, cracked skin. "I want you beside me," he ordered softly, a different sort of heat curling in his stomach as the robe slipped to the floor and Napoleon crawled in beside him. His eyes closed as Napoleon gathered him in his arms, sighing contentedly as he was guided to lie down half atop Napoleon's chest, using his body as a pillow. 

"You'll be starving when you wake," Napoleon cautioned quietly. 

Illya's nose twitched in annoyance as Napoleon's fingers carded through his hair, but his entire being was too heavy to argue the point of contention. He _hated_   having his hair played with but it held endless fascination for Napoleon, who had dated so many blondes it shouldn't have had such a strong impression. 

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Napoleon's chest, feeling an answering weight against his hair. "Pancakes," he grumbled, assured that Napoleon would sense when he was about to wake and have room service deliver pancakes, bacon, eggs, tea and toast to appease him. He slid his arm over Napoleon's stomach, pulling up the sheets until they were cocooned in their own body heat. 

"I will never stop looking for you," Napoleon whispered into his hair. 

Illya smiled sleepily. They had never bothered with the normal declarations of love. Being partnered for years—relying on only each other for rescue, for comfort, for secrets kept and secrets told—had forged a bond that went beyond the concept of love. Devotion, loyalty and deep affection were part of it, but still not the whole picture. They were each the missing half of the other; where one had a weakness, the other had strength. When one faltered, the other picked him up. 

When one went missing, the other would go to the ends of the earth to get him back. 

"I will always find you," Illya murmured, rubbing his fingertips absently on Napoleon's chest. A hand squeezed his shoulder and Illya was satisfied that Napoleon had not been injured in his excursion to rescue him. Words were not what they used to ask important questions. A look or a touch was all that was needed to convey a thought or a feeling; in this case, assurance. 

Illya adjusted the pressure of his fingertips, feeling Napoleon's body relax against him as he continued to soothe his disquieted lover. Napoleon had been strong for him, now it was his turn to be strong for Napoleon. It was easy to be the lost one. It was the search; the worry; that nagging voice at the back of your mind that taunted _not in time_ that wore you down. For Napoleon to find him, get him back to the hotel, clean him up and call in a doctor had to have taken incredible fortitude.

Illya stayed awake long after Napoleon's breathing had changed and his body went lax with sleep, remembering the last time Napoleon had gone missing. Six weeks ago, it had been Illya searching a 140 room hotel for his captured lover, his methods getting sloppier and more frantic with each empty room. He'd half-carried Napoleon to safety, then Illya had spent the better part of five days in Medical, waiting to hear if the drugs used on his partner had any permanent effects. 

When the results came back negative, Illya had been grateful and passionate in their reunion, keeping Napoleon in bed another full day to burn out the demons that had possessed him and to reaffirm that Napoleon had truly returned to him. 

Pressing his forehead to Napoleon's chest, Illya breathed in the clean, warm scent of his lover. He murmured, "Always," into Napoleon's skin before he allowed himself to follow Napoleon into sleep.

The End


End file.
